IT WAS like one of those old movies: the disgraced officer paraded before his troops, his badges of rank stripped from his uniform and, the final blow, his sword broken over his CO's knee.

Thus was the fate of Mean Mike when, tail between his legs, he finally dragged himself back to the post office after a fortnight in exile over the tops in Crookedale.

Mike, my regular reader might remember, had applied for planning permission to build a burger bar in the centre of Beggarsdale when his wife, Cousin Kate, who actually owns the post office, was away Down Under.

Rarely had a move so united the village. In opposition, of course. And when Kate, who is chairman of the parish council, came home, she was greeted by a pile of polyester burger and fish and chip cartons in her front doorway, lovingly collected in the gutters of Marketton, where they are sadly plentiful, by the unlikely alliance of Owd Tom and Teacher Tess.

Well Mike had not been seen until, this week, his ancient Ford Consul grunted and groaned back into the village under the cover of darkness.

What was said that night can only be a matter of surmise, because what happens between consenting adults in the privacy of their own homes is best left that way. But Kate chose her moment well...

It was the early morning rush hour, which in Beggarsdale means six people going to the post office for their newspapers and several local mums loading their children into cars for the school run.

At that very moment, Mike was ejected through the shop door and, doing his best to walk to attention, marched to the side gate where the offending item still hung: a piece of white paper, wrapped in a plastic bag, attached to the post by a nail.

It was, of course, the public notice that the planning application had been made.

Trying to avoid the stares of the gathered crowd (there must have been all of ten of them) he removed the offending notice with some

difficulty and did an about turn.

Out of the door came Kate. She held out a hand and, meekly, Mike placed the doomed paper in it.

With a deep breath and a stare of defiance at the onlookers, Kate carefully removed the paper from his wrapper and, ceremonially, tore it into a dozen pieces. She dropped these into the gutter and gave them a petulant stamp with her foot.

"No pick that lot up," she said crisply. "Some of us here hate litter louts."

That evening, Kate came into the Beggars' Arms. Alone. She ordered her usual gin and tonic, looked us all coldly in the eye one by one, and hissed: "If anyone here ever says a single word about a certain matter, they'll answer to me."

"I'll get that," said Jetset. "No I'll get it," said Teacher Tim, Tess's husband. "Shut tha gobs," said Owd Tom, "this un's on me."

Kate compromised and accepted one from us all (and later had to be helped across the Lane by the Innkeeper's Lady). So ended the Battle of Beggarsdale Burger Bar. Anybody would have thought we had won the world cup (whatever that is).

l The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.